


tipped

by foxwedding



Series: Big Love [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking, F/F, Female Billy Hargrove, Female Billy Hargrove/Female Steve Harrington, Female Steve Harrington, Slurs, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxwedding/pseuds/foxwedding
Summary: Initially, Billie's delighted by the idea that her merepresenceseems to drain Stevie fucking Harrington's will to live. The brat in question is within fifteen feet of Billie for the first time in four years, mouth agape in adorable indignation, tight ass wrapped up in a leather miniskirt, clutching (literally) her fancy drink and (figuratively) her pearls.  And Billie islivingfor it.Billie's POV of Tilted
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley/Heather Holloway
Series: Big Love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684426
Comments: 11
Kudos: 111





	tipped

**Author's Note:**

> This is Billie's perspective during the events of Tilted, the first part of this series. Could be read as a stand alone, but would probably make way better sense after reading Tilted.

Initially, Billie's delighted by the idea that her mere _presence_ seems to drain Stevie fucking Harrington's will to live. She and Heather are at some dive bar now, a sort of cross between a wood-paneled sports bar and a red-lit 1970s fuck pad. Exactly the sort of atrocious combination one would expect out of a neighborhood pub, except gayer and playing KD Lang over the speakers. Heather's meeting the apparent love-of-her-life tonight—Robin Buckley—whom Billie's never met, nor does she remember from Hawkins High, where Heather insists she attended.

During her four years of friendship with Heather, Billie's become gradually aware of Buckley's existence as Stevie fucking Harrington's hipster best friend. As a general rule, there's always been a vague, but collective awareness of Harrington among their generation of Hawkins queers. It's pretty hard to forget about watching a Queen Bee fall from grace—so hard and so _quickly_ —and then stand up and carry on through to graduation. Really, an extraordinary feat by all accounts. 

But while Heather seems to regard Harrington with faint hero-worship, Billie knows better. Actually _knows_ Harrington—they played on the same basketball team, attended the same parties (for a while), Billie even once beat that Princess's face in. Sure, Harrington outted herself fearlessly, whereas Billie wouldn't have fucking dared back then. And sure, the brunette held her head high in the aftermath, with a quiet grace that Billie knows she, herself, could never had achieved. But after, Harrington _kept_ hanging out with those losers, like a kicked dog. Acted like she was better, wiser, _above_ the rest of them, refusing to keep her head down and accept her place—which was now 'dyke pariah.'

So really, if you ask Billie, Stevie Harrington's just the dumb fuck that threw her life away for a pretty face, and then refused to climb down from her high horse about it. 

Never mind all the Lovecraftian bullshit—which Billie became aware of later on. Intimately acquainted with, actually. While _it_ was inside her, she'd retained only various snapshots from that time in her life—her own horrified reflection in a mirror, Max sobbing at her through a foggy window, Harrington throwing the full force of her body weight behind a baseball bat—though Billie suspects this last one might be a foreign memory. Regardless, it didn't take waking up, months later, in a government hospital, for her to already know that something unnatural, something _horrific,_ had been at play in Hawkins. Billie'd been filled in on the true details, which only the government, Max, and a handful of townspeople were in on. Said handful had been quick to assure her that the _bad things_ Billie had done were, in fact, done by not-Billie, simultaneously alleviating her guilt _and_ making her feel guiltier than she'd ever felt in her life…

Eh, she's still working through it. The point currently being: Stevie Harrington's within fifteen feet of her for the first time in four years, mouth agape in adorable indignation, tight ass wrapped up in a leather miniskirt, clutching (literally) her fancy drink and (figuratively) her pearls. And Billie is _living_ for it. Shakes a stick of gum out of one pocket, cracks it between her molars, and waits for the show to begin.

And Heather, _god bless her soul,_ has no fucking clue. She's bouncing happily towards Stevie like this is all an ecstatic reunion, throwing her arms around the brunette's torso while the brunette eyes her own drink desperately. The two chat for a bit, and at one point Stevie's agreeing with Heather so weakly, so genuinely half-heartedly, that Billie cackles out loud. It only gets better from there when she realizes that Stevie's entirely unaware that Heather and Billie are practically her new neighbors. 

The princess shoots a look of pure disbelief over Heather's shoulders and at Buckley. Uh oh. Then Heather's scampering away to order a drink. Billie decides to make her move, can't put it off a second longer. 

She takes a second to remember how she used to talk to Harrington before, "Aww, Queen Stevie," comes drawling out her mouth, almost involuntarily. "Aren't you happy to see us?" Out of the corner of eye, Buckley's stiffening and coming to Harrington's side, like princess can't stand on her own two feet. Billie's half-surprised Stevie still can't take a joke but also, half-expecting this exact reaction. It's nice to know that some things don't ever change.

Harrington's perfectly maintained brows are coming together in a frown, her pert lips downturned. "You must be fucking kidding me," she's announcing, like she believes that the universe—revolving solely around her—has _plotted against her_ to deposit Billie right back into her life. Billie gives her a moment to take it all in, again reveling in the fact that her own presence rocks Stevie's little world.

Suddenly, the princess is attacking, "Do you even _belong_ here?" And for a moment, Billie's not sure if Harrington's referring to this bar, civilized society, or maybe even here on this mortal plane. After a beat, she figures it's probably the first one, but still. Ouch.

Before Billie can stop herself, she's coming back with, "Unlike you, Harrington, most of us weren't stupid enough to out ourselves in high school. I mean, _Jesus Christ._ " And it's unfair, really, even _she_ knows it. There's just too much there.

Stevie sucks a little gasp at the cruelty of it, expression going cold and mean—unusual to see on her face. Billie's momentarily concerned that the princess is about to try and throw hands—which is not going to end up well for her—when suddenly Heather's returning between them in a cloud of exasperation and Nag Champa perfume. Thank god.

Heather's pushing a beer at Billie impatiently, and she scrambles to grab at it. Her best friend's griping, "Are you two _serious_ right now? How can you possibly be fighting already—it's been four years. Are we really not past high school?" And now Billie's just embarrassed. Heather's well aware of the Hargrove-Harrington saga, as told by Billie, who's freely admitted that she used to do the majority of the provocation—verbally that is. In her own defense, Stevie's mere existence is a provocation all on its own, but the blonde doesn't want to dwell on that.

Billie's sitting at the high table now, in a stool as far away from Stevie as possible. Heather drops down beside her, fuming quietly. "Both of you figure it out," she hisses, looking right at Billie. "Do _not_ ruin my date with Robin." She's looking at the brunette as she says this, but Billie knows it's directed mainly at her. She drops her gaze and nods, thoroughly chastised in the way only Heather can dish out.

Then Buckley returns and the four of them stumble through an hour of small talk. Or rather, Heather and Robin chat easily, while trying to pull Billie and Stevie into the conversation at strategic points. It's clear they're trying to smooth the tension, create a line of communication, but she and Stevie are pointedly sidestepping their efforts. Both of them converse _only_ with Heather or Robin, while ignoring each other entirely. Billie learns that Robin and Stevie have been frequenting this bar since they moved to the neighborhood three years prior, that Stevie's fucked four of the other regulars, and that Robin's been smart enough to take her cruising elsewhere. After that, the conversation turns to Heather and Robin's bonding passion: being fucking insufferable hippies. And Stevie just sort of…checks out of the conversation.

At first, Billie assumes it's because the brunette's grown bored, doesn't want to play anymore—typical princess fashion. But she's looking right at Stevie's face, and the expression isn't one of disinterest or pouting. It's numbed out. And Billie knows what that looks like, because she's felt that exact expression on her own face more times than she can count. 

For the fucking millionth time, Billie wonders how much of Hawkins _weird bullshit_ Stevie lived through. As much as Billie? More than Billie? Certainly for longer than Billie, the blonde knows that much, because Max has alluded to it several times. For the first time, Billie wonders if maybe _that's_ what took down Queen Stevie, and not just some melodramatic teenage heartbreak. With a shock of cold horror, she also wonders if Harrington still sees _it_ when she looks at Billie.

As if mindreading, Stevie's attention is suddenly on Billie—well not on Billie, so much as her scar. She decides to let the brunette have her fill looking, thinks it's only fair, eyeing the crescent white mark at Stevie's hairline. Billie doesn't mean to clear her throat—it's just a reflexive response to scrutiny—and the brunette meets her gaze, only to quickly dismiss it and look out the window. It rankles. Billie wonders if there's anyone on this whole goddamn planet that Stevie Harrington considers worth her time. Then the brunette's slumping and turning back.

"How's Max?" She asks slowly, like she's approaching a wild animal. _How's Max?_ Billie knows that Stevie's well aware how Max is doing. Those dipshitlings call Harrington at least twice a week. Billie knows this—since Harrington's left, _she's_ had to shepherd the nerd pack around more than a few times. She knows what they get up to.

Billie considers telling Stevie to not even bother, but ultimately thinks better of it. They're going to be seeing a lot of each other. "Good." And _fuck,_ Billie has to at least try, if only to get Heather off her back. "She and Sinclair are applying to schools—hoping to go somewhere together," she continues.

The brunette chuckles fondly. "God help wherever they go," she swallows, then,"—and you?" It's so awkward. Fuck, this conversation is the worst thing to ever happen to Billie. Well, not the _worst_ thing. In the top five for sure, though. 

Billie chugs the rest of her beer after explaining, "Just transferred to UI. Was taking classes at a community college outside'a Hawkins."

"Cool, cool," the brunette's nodding, sounding bored out of her mind. "What for?"

The blonde wonders if she should even bother responding, wonders if Stevie would even believe the truth. "English lit," Billie admits after a long pause, prepares for incredulous surprise or polite interest. 

Stevie does neither. Instead she nods thoughtfully, replying, "Yeah, that makes sense." And _what?_ It _does?_ In what world does that make sense to her? It barely makes sense to _Billie._ The response is so out of left field that the blonde feels obliged to return the effort.

"Soooo…" Billie begins and immediately wants to kill herself. "You're a barista?" She hates that she knows anything about Harrington's life, would love to pretend she doesn't even think about the princess. 

"Yep. I like it-it's a lot of. Um. Talking to people."

And that response makes sense to Billie. Remembers back to the times in high school when Stevie wasn't being a goddamn brat. People tended to flock to her—she just had this way of making people feel safe, calm. Not Billie, or course, but it was an effect she'd seen the brunette have on a lot of their peers. Wanted it for herself. So, she knows that the princess can turn on the charm when she needs to. When she's not pouting.

The blonde nods. "Hmmm. Think you'll go to school for anything?"

It's a genuine question on Billie's part, which is why she's side-winded when it seems to shut Stevie down. The brunette's expression shifts, moving seamlessly from uncomfortably vulnerable to smooth aloofness. 

"Don't need to," she bites out, "Already got a trust fund from Daddy." She punctuates this with deliberate eye contact, tacitly daring Billie to take the bait. Just like they're back in high school.

And what the _fuck?_ Billie just gives up, leaves to order another drink. No friendship could possibly be worth this kind of effort.

There's a good-looking butch behind the bar tonight, not really Billie's type, though she does enjoy the way the chick stone-faces every patron that orders. It's a power move that the blonde deeply respects. She orders a single shot of rail whiskey, chases it with a half-glass of water, and looks around for the bathroom, mostly to delay returning to the table.

The bathroom is a three-stall affair, the walls plastered with vintage Playboy centerfolds and covered in colorful graffiti. Sprawled in one top corner is a heart that inscribes an 'J + M', dated 1988. Billie wonders if they're still together. Doubts it. She pees quickly, washes up, and wishes she had a smoke to light up when she sees the disabled smoke detector. Next time.

When Billie returns to the table, it's to the sight of her best friend and Buckley shamelessly making out while Stevie's scrolling on her phone. The brunette is clearly angled so that her screen blocks the couple from her line of vision. Billie distantly tries to remember how long the human brain can go without fresh oxygen and makes sure to comment aloud about it. 

Buckley's coming up for air now, telling Stevie she needs the apartment for a couple hours. Under any other circumstance, Billie would be absolutely relishing the power-pout that follows from Harrington. Except—and it hits her a second afterwards—this leaves Billie and Stevie alone, as in, without a buffer whatsoever. Stevie makes her discontent known, and for once, Billie agrees with her.

But then, Buckley dangles this little gem down: "I don't wanna bring up Dani right now," and suddenly Billie's revitalized. "But I will bring up Dani right now, if I have to." She finishes. Stevie's defeated expression is what really cinches it for Billie.

She can't even contain the "Who's Dani?" That pops happily from her mouth.

Robin says, "Stevie's ex-girlfriend," while Stevie says, "I girl I used to hook up with."

Even better. "Well which is it?" Billie asks, as though merely seeking clarification. 

This time, Robin says, "What I said," while Stevie insists, "None of your business, Hargrove."

 _Delicious._ Turns out Billie still _loves_ watching Stevie Harrington get riled up. Unfortunately, Heather and Buckley are out the door before Billie can extract any more information. Heather's tossing a, "Play nice," at Billie, like the blonde hasn't already been doing that all night.

But now, Billie's starting to panic. There's literally _no way_ she can be nicer to Harrington than she's already been. It's simply asking the impossible. And the two of them haven't been alone together since—actually ever. They've never been alone together. Billie needs to remove herself from this time-bomb scenario, get back to her and Heather's apartment. Maybe take the rest of the night to unpack a little more. A friendship between her and Stevie has never, will never, be in the cards. Fuck, she just needs to find a plausible exit strategy that doesn't further offend the princess's sensibilities. But then—  


"Listen." Stevie's addressing her, palms flat on the table top, looking resolute. 

Billie's positive she doesn't want to hear whatever that's about to follow. Because here's the thing about Harrington: she's not often mean—not in the casual, flippant way that Billie knows she, herself, is—but when Stevie's mean, she goes in for the kill. And Billie doesn't handle that as well as she used to, knows now that she's not as indestructible as she once believed she was. Plus, there's no one else around that might encourage the brunette temper her words. But then—

"Do you wanna get wasted?" Is what comes out of Stevie's mouth. "I'll get the first round."

It feels like emotional whiplash. "Yeah alright," the blonde agrees cautiously, then quickly revises her response. "But I'm getting the first round—means _I_ get to pick the drinks." God knows what kind of princess nonsense the brunette might insist on having Billie order. 

"Have at it," is the response she gets.

Billie orders two double ryes at the bar, knowing full well this is about to be a disaster. Might as well pick the poison _she_ prefers. Opens a tab while she's at it, tells the chick to put Harrington's drinks on it as well—a preemptive apology for whatever fight they're sure to have. While she waits, she watches the bartender straight up ignore a girl dressed in full bachelorette regalia, and it makes her feel a bit better.

She sets the glass down in front of Stevie and steels herself. They both drink about a third of their respective tumblers, clearly scrambling to find something to talk about. Billie's decidedly put the ball in the brunette's court for this—her own sense of neutral topics has gone out the window. She tries to breathe through the palpable awkwardness. 

Finally, Stevie breaches the silence. "I didn't know you liked women." And there it is. The crux of this entire night. 

"Prefer them," Billie resigns herself to this conversation. "A guy'll do in a pinch, but it's not a long-term solution. Barely a one-night solution."

She gets a little chuckle, but Billie's wondering if Stevie's _really_ asking why, then, did the blonde not stand by her, back then—you know, solidarity. It's the question Billie would have been asking in Stevie's position. And truth is, Billie doesn't know. Actually, that's a lie. She does know, she just doesn't like what it says about herself.

"I mean, I always kind of knew," Billie forces herself to give an honest answer to the question she believes Stevie's actually asking. "But back then, there was never any reason to say it out loud, ya know?" Tacitly, she implores the brunette to understand.

Stevie barks a laugh, short and sad. "Oh trust me, I get it. I'm practically the cautionary tale for queer high-schoolers in Hawkins."

Billie wants to tell her that's not true, if only to smooth over the bitter tone of this conversation. But that would be a lie. And also, Billie's never been good at comforting.

"Practically a folkhero for Heather and me," she tries. And that, at least, is true.

"Fuck off," Stevie groans tiredly.

And Billie wants to—she's not sure. Maybe show Harrington that it wasn't all for nothing? "Look," she says, "yours was, like, almost the worst-case scenario. Took the pressure off the rest of us, if you want my opinion. Really, no one's been fucked that badly since." Fuck, Billie's _terrible_ at this. Stevie's face blanks out, and the blonde knows she's missed her target by a mile.

"You know what, Billie?" And yikes, that tone is _not_ promising. "I have no doubt that watching me crash and burn made you feel better." What actually hurts about that statement is that Billie can understand why Stevie would believe that.

The blonde retreats a little, physically leans back. "Easy princess. I didn't mean it like that." Billie doesn't know what else to do. Doesn't know how to _make_ Stevie believe that the blonde's not trying to hurt her. 

Across the table, Stevie swallows and closes her eyes. Her brows are furrowed, like she's thinking about something profoundly sad. Taking measured breaths. Billie realizes she's watching Stevie Harrington gather her pieces and put herself back together. It's a somewhat humbling experience. 

"Okay," the brunette exhales finally. "Okay," she repeats opening her eyes and looking directly into Billie's. There's something happening here, something clearing away from Stevie's expression—she's making herself wide open and fucking _defenseless._ It scares Billie. 

"Look." Stevie continues, "I'm just. I'm feeling a little wounded here, alright?" The brunette sounds— _scared._ "Our history is kind of. Raw."

And suddenly, Billie feels stupid. Like, really stupid. Stevie's just as afraid as she is. And somehow, it's an option that Billie's never considered. Like Billie somehow truly believed Stevie was too high up on her horse to feel fear. Too uncaring of the high-school social order to really be hurt. Too high and mighty to be brought to her knees. All the things that obscure Billie's understanding of Stevie fall away. In the end, the brunette's just a lonely brat that once got her heart broken by the whole world. And _fuck,_ can Billie relate to that. Fuck this whole night. God, she wants a cigarette.

Billie nods to Stevie's drink. "Let's kill these and go split a smoke outside, huh?" Before the other can respond, Billie's swallowing the rest of her drink in one go, feels a scorching trail from her throat down to her stomach. The brunette nods eagerly, spills a little rye down her chin when she knocks her drink back. Messy somehow always looks good on Stevie.

It's pleasantly cool outside, the street lights casting orange across the smatterings of people on the street. There's a soft breeze fluttering about, and the nighttime chorus of crickets competes with the distant commotion from downtown.

Billie unearths her pack from her back pocket and shakes a cigarette loose. Lights it between her lips by muscle memory alone, inconspicuously eyeing the long lines of Stevie's bare legs. She can get a good look now that they're standing up. Those stems are still toned and lovely and Billie's still dying to get her hands on them. Really wrap them around Billie's waist. Maybe slide a palm up the inside of her thigh, right up to where that skirt ends, under the swell of Stevie's ass. 

She passes the cigarette to the brunette, who takes an unusually deep drag and wraps one arm around her own waist to keep herself warm. The night breeze makes it abundantly clear that Stevie's gone braless tonight, her nipples plainly visible under that silk top. Billie can't help herself—she immediately pictures warming them up with her mouth. Wonders if Stevie went without panties tonight, too. With that skirt, probably not. But damn, Billie's still imagining it. 

She's gotta get a hand on Stevie—practically vibrating with the need to reach out and touch her. Under the guise of keeping her warm she draws the brunette in with a hand at the small of her back—"come on, baby girl"—remembering to be gentle, so gentle. Nearly loses it when Stevie comes easily, tucking herself against Billie's side, giving the blonde a clear line of vision to the twin moles behind Stevie's left ear. She thinks about nosing into the long slope of that neck, up to the hairline. 

Billie's rocked back to real life when Stevie asks, "Does it ever hurt?" The brunette is frowning at her chest scar. She reaches up to touch it instinctively. Still there.

"I guess?" Billie considers the question. "Sometimes it's sore, if that's what you mean."

Stevie's shaking her head and clarifying, "No, like—Nance says that Will Byers still gets these, like—tinges, or whatever—when, uh. Um. _Weird_ things start up in Hawkins."

A good bit of warmth leaves Billie's body. She sidesteps the question entirely as she realizes, "You still _talk_ to Wheeler?"

"Yeah, Johnny too." Stevie's frowning like Billie's insane for thinking otherwise. "We went through a lot, the three of us, you know?"

And Billie just. She cannot understand it. Can't comprehend the hold that Wheeler and Byers have on Stevie. She settles on a mild, "That girl made a mess outta you."

And then Stevie confuses her further by agreeing, following up with, "But she never meant to. I think she _thought_ she really loved me. You know, how before you fall in love for the first time, you don't really know what it's supposed to feel like? That's what was going on."

Billie can't imagine ever coming to terms with heartbreak in such an even manner. It just seems insurmountable. She wants to rage against Wheeler, Byers, herself, the world _for_ Stevie. Oh god, Billie thinks, please don't tell me—

"Do you still—you know. Do you miss her?" 

"Nah," the answer is easy, immediate, and Billie feels inexplicably relieved. Stevie continues, "Not _her._ I think I just miss being brave in love."

And Jesus fucking Christ, Stevie's practically regarded as the patron saint of going-after-your-girl in Hawkins. It's like chasing a shooting star all the way to the horizon, only to come upon a gaping, barren crater instead—only a hunk of searing metal left in the aftermath. Still hot-to-the-touch but will never burn as brightly again. If Stevie fucking Harrington doesn't consider herself brave enough, well then. What's the fucking point for the rest of them.

Billie sighs. "Wow, that's—that's too fuckin' real." It's the best she can manage. There's a beat of silence. The butt of their cigarette is smoking on the ground between them, and Billie grinds it out with the heel of her boot.

"Let's go back inside," Stevie's pulling softly at Billie's elbow. "I want another beer, and then I wanna relearn how to play pool." Billie snorts. Fucking brat.

The blonde takes almost carnal pleasure in Stevie's shriek when Billie reaches around and pinches at her ribs.

"Billie!" She's whining, and it's so, so sweet. "You asshole, that's probably gonna bruise." 

Billie sure hopes so, says as much—"Mmm. Perfect."

They spend the next twenty minutes on adjacent stools, commenting on a season-two re-run of the original L-Word. Stevie seems dead-set on disagreeing with every one of Billie's opinions, but the blonde can't find it in her to care too much. Not when the brunette is flushed prettily, animated and open, making statements like: _'Fingerfucking someone in the bathroom of your own bar? That's hot'_ and _'Play nice with me, Billie,'_ or something to that effect. Spends the whole last-half on the episode pushing Billie on everything the blonde says, until Billie decides to _push back._

She gets real up close to Stevie, makes sure the brunette has to lean back in her chair a little to maintain decorum. Billie puts on her best bedroom voice and teases, "I don't think you actually want me to play nice with you, baby girl." And yeah, Billie knows the statement is true, but _oh shit,_ she didn't realize the statement was _that true_ until she sees Stevie's pupils dilate darkly, notices the brunette's attention is on her mouth. Billie's insides swoop with heat.

Stevie appears to catch herself, though. Comes back with, "Even if I wanted, I don't think you actually _know_ how to play nice, Billie."

And because Billie's never had a single shred of impulse control in her life, she doubles down, curling one hand gently around Stevie's left knee, letting her thumb pet the soft skin there. Really takes the whole thing to an eleven with a ridiculous, "I can play _very nice,_ " right in Stevie's ear. Because Stevie's neck and collar are flushing brightly, because she's tilting her head _just so,_ so that Billie's lips can brush the shell of her ear. Because this close, Billie can smell that Stevie hasn't changed the brand of her hair products, four years later.

Then, as quickly as the brunette let Billie into her space, she's pushing her out with a dry, "Nice try, Hargrove." At first, Billie's reeling at the abrupt change, thinks she's made Stevie truly angry. But then the blonde sees how Stevie's shying away from eye contact as she announces, "Let's go play some pool. Every time I learn how to play I'm drunk, so every time I drink I have to relearn it." And Billie realizes she's scared the brunette—which, fair. If their positions had been reversed, with Stevie pushing the blonde in that way—well actually, that's a bad example, because Billie would fully take advantage of that. But Stevie's not Billie, so. 

The blonde chases her to the back of the room, where there are several older dykes guarding a heavily scuffed pool table. They're sturdy women, world-wary, and packed together, they look like an old-school biker gang. Billie likes them immediately.

She misses the quip Stevie makes that has them all chuckling—of course the brunette already has them chuckling. But catches the, "We teaching you pool again, Stevie?" drawled out by some tatted-up butch in cargo pants—Janice, she learns. _Again?_

"Oh my god, you weren't joking," Billie hears herself blurt out. She gets this immediate mental image of brat-princess Stevie, strolling up for the first time—probably only half-covered and clad in haute couture—and talking these old butches into teaching her pool. And it's so fucking funny that she pushes introducing herself aside in favor of asking, "How many times have you taught her how to play pool?"

Immediately, Stevie's whining, clearly trying to obscure the woman's, "Bout a half-dozen times."

Billie bites her lip and tries not to laugh out loud. It's so good. She puts that tidbit on the backburner for now, knows she can't rip on Stevie this soon after scaring her just a minute ago. Let it breathe, she thinks.

"So Stevie, is this your girl?" A heavier-set woman asks. She's got a whole mess of piercings in each ear and introduces herself as 'Mickey'. Mickey's glancing interestedly between Billie and Stevie, one hand in her jean pocket, the other fingering an e-cig. 

"Fuck no!" Stevie exclaims, her voiced pitched up practically into a screech. Billie rolls her eyes. The brunette continues, "We went to high school together," as if this explains everything.

She leaves to use the restroom, and when she returns, Janice is positioning the 8-ball rack and she, Mickey, and Stevie are chalking up their cue sticks. In Billie's absence, Janice has decided on couples pool—meaning Janice and Mickey against Billie and Stevie. She's really feeling the whiskey now, as she breaks the rack, her body warm and loose. They spend the next half-hour playing, Billie carrying the two of them, because of course she is.

The teams are pretty evenly matched, so when they get down to the eight-ball, there are no other billiard balls left on the table. Unfortunately, the ball's at a terrible angle to any pocket and it's Stevie's turn with the cue stick, which means they're definitely about to lose. She turns her fucking doe-eyes on Billie, asking for help.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Billie mutters under her breath. Leans over Stevie, half plastered to her back, readjusting the angle of her cue. Tries to make it casual, like Billie hasn't imagined pressing Stevie over the ledge of the table and sliding her fingers right into the princess's panties, like, fifteen times since they started this game. 

She's trying to explain to Stevie where to aim her cue stick based on the angle at which she wants to strike the cue ball, but the brunette appears to be ignoring her. She's nodding along easily, hmmm'ing, brows furrowed, at the right intervals, but the fact that she hasn't contended a single point that Billie's trying to make lets the blonde know, with absolute certainty, that the brunette hasn't been paying attention.

"Hey!" Billie hisses, reaching over to snap her fingers in front of Stevie's face. "Are you even listening?" 

The brunette huffs a giggle into the crook of her elbow. "Sorry, sorry, one more time, I'm listening, promise."

Billie clenches her jaw in irritation and rounds back to the top to repeat her explanation. Again, gets half way through before Stevie's just— _goddamn it,_ Stevie's wiggling her ass back against Billie's hips deliberately, like she's just inviting the blonde right in. The brunette's snickering into her cue but stops with a short gasp when Billie reaches over to the pinch at the skin of Stevie's ribs again. Billie maintains the hold, squeezing tightly, and leans down towards the brunette's face, some of her blonde curls settling onto the other's bare shoulder.

" _Do not_ test me, princess," she pitches her voice low, so that only Stevie can hear. The brunette turns her head slightly, so that Billie can catch Stevie's profile. The brunette is fucking smirking, really, grinning like she's having the time of her life.

Meets Billie's gaze out of the corner of her eye and just whispers, "No." Like obeying Billie is simply an impossibility for Stevie. The blonde's instantly aware of the wet heat between her own thighs.

"Hey!" barks out next to them, and they both push up and apart. Eileen's two feet away, swallowing a gulp of beer and gesturing between the two of them. "Really guys, not on the pool table." Hands off a pint to a middle-aged femme that's just showed up, and suggests as she turns away, "Take it up in the bathroom if you seriously have to."

Across from them, Mickey's talking into Janice's ear, who's nodding along like she's listening intently. They've both got their cues propped up like canes, pint glasses now empty on the table ledge. Janice catches Billie's eye and leans forward.

"You guys done now? Can we please finish this game?" It's not said unkindly, but Billie feels embarrassed nonetheless. 

"Ugh, fine," Stevie groans, adjusting her stance and leaning over the cue stick. She draws it back easily and thrusts it forwards in a fluid motion. There's a thud as the stick hits the cue ball, a crack as the cue ball collides with the eight ball, and a clatter as the eight ball drops right into a pocket. Billie's jaw drops—this brat didn't once need her help.

"You. Fucking. Brat." She's shaking her head at Stevie in absolute disbelief. 

Stevie nods easily, like she fully agrees with that assessment, before laying her cue stick across the table and walking away with a casual, "I'm gonna get a beer—you want anything?"

Billie takes in the way Stevie sways a bit on her feet, evaluates the steadiness of her own body, and suggests, "Let's split whatever you get, honestly, princess." The brunette shrugs in agreement. 

The blonde finds herself dropping onto a stool next to Mickey. She stretches her legs out in front of herself, crossing them at the ankle. They chat for a bit, and Billie concludes that Mickey's the kind of person that no one would dare go toe-to-toe with, which means Billie instantly respects her. Turns out she and Janice have been together since '88, which is longer than Billie's been fucking alive. She wants to ask the woman how she's made _that_ work—Billie's fucked more than a handful of woman, had a few long-standing fuck-buddies, but she's never quite managed to figure out how to get someone to be her girlfriend.

Mickey asks her if she's gay, to which Billie responds, "In aspiration, yes. In practicality, sometimes beggars can't be choosers." The ol' butch practically guffaws and slaps her on one shoulder. "Stevie seems to like you," she offers salaciously, "Dollface _never_ brings anyone over to play pool with her."

Billie chuckles, and it feels a little bitter. "We _really_ did not get along back in school—I mean, that's really an understatement." She feels strangely obliged to be honest—wants to meet Mickey's approval, doesn't want the old broad to hear about what a _coward_ she was from Stevie first. "Outta all the queer kids back home, Stevie was the first to come out—kinda, I dunno. Took the fall for the rest of us or something. No one really stood by her." It's a gross oversimplification of the events, but the gist of it rings true to Billie.

Mickey hmmm's thoughtfully. "Yeah, it's hard when you're younger. Everyone's just trying to make it through alive." And _fuck,_ if that wasn't exactly Billie's mindset back then.

Before Billie can respond, Stevie's marching back in a huff, passing her pint glass to the blonde and complaining, "I _swear,_ that bartender fucking hates me." She turns to Billie, accusing, "Also, did you tell her to put _my_ drinks on _your_ tab?" Oh yeah, Billie forgot about that. 

"Jesus," Billie groans aloud, "I just can't _win_ with you. Take a fuckin' favor, Harrington."

"Okay, first of all," Stevie starts, and Billie mutters a, "Christ, no."

" _First of all,_ " the brunette repeats, "I'm fully capable of buying my own drinks."

"Never said you weren't," Billie tosses back. 

"Look," Stevie begins, cocking her hips to one side and wetting her lips with a deft tongue. "Just because you always wanna be, I dunno— _Queen Daddy_ —or whatever—" 

Billie splutters and laughs. "—No," she cuts Stevie off, "No, that's the end of the argument. I'm Queen Daddy." Beside her, Mickey's looking on attentively.

"What? No!" Stevie tries to interject and the pout that follows puts Billie over the edge.

"Nope," Billie exhales between honest-to-god belly-laughs. "That's it. I'm Queen Daddy."

The overhead lights are flickering now, signaling last call. Then the blaring blue light of Stevie's phone screen is being shoved into Billie's face as the brunette explains, "Oh shit. Robin texted me, like, an hour-and-a-half ago."

Stevie runs to restroom while Billie closes out the tab, the bar emptying out slowly. They're out on the street now, both of them well and truly wasted, belting out Fleetwood Mac's Go Your Own Way. They sound fucking awful, and Stevie keeps cackling about it. Billie loops an arm around Stevie's waist just to hear her squeal as she's pulled off-balance. They make it to Stevie's apartment building and up two flights of stairs—fucking barely—before there's a door swinging open in front of their faces.

It's Heather and Buckley, of course, and _shit,_ they both looked fucked out. Billie refrains from commenting on it, but only just. And then her best friend is laughing, right in her fucking face, because Stevie's still leaning heavily on Billie, and Billie's got one arm around Stevie's waist, her hand on the bare skin of the brunette's stomach because her top's been rucked up out of her skirt. Some sort of exchange happens between Heather and Robin, but Billie's unclear about it, because Stevie's dropped her forehead to Billie's shoulder, giggling tiredly.

Suddenly the weight is gone, as Robin hoists Stevie away, and Heather's shrugging on her jacket. There's a beat where Heather and Robin are whispering grossly to each other, followed by short kisses, and then Heather's guiding Billie down the stairs.

Once they're back out on the street, Heather throws an arm around Billie's shoulders as they make their way to their own apartment, a few blocks west. 

"Good night?" she asks, letting Billie lean into her.

"Good night," Billie confirms, and lets her thoughts drift aimlessly, knowing Heather will get them safely home.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you dig it. Thoughts? Comments? Ideas? Peace


End file.
